He would miss the first glimpse of her breasts displayed by her corset, a feast for his eyes and then lips. The image of her pert derriere, tantalizing him through the gauzy cotton of her shift, would be a worthy consolation. That swell teased his ring and little finger all evening and promised to be even more devastating than her bosom. Yes, his Eliza had somehow hidden the curves of a goddess beneath her modest gowns.
Droplets of excitement left his cock slick, his hand easily gliding back and forth. She would need encouragement at first. Perhaps with time and support, she would grow bold enough to reach beneath her skirts and gather some of her own arousal to ease her stroke. He could watch as she worked the evidence of her lust into his own along his length. The thought stole the air from his lungs.
Convinced of her own perfection, she would be assured enough to press him to the bed and claim what she wanted. She would toss her wild curls back before straddling him, trapping his head between sumptuous thighs. He could drown in the evidence of her pleasure. The feminine musk of her scent would be stronger there. Benedict’s entire world would narrow to Eliza, the essence of her arousal, the taste of her desire, the silk of her curves as his fingers dug into them—clasping her to his lips. If he pleased her well, her moans might filter down to his ears, muffled by her thighs. He might catch glimpses of her heavy-lidded eyes as she teased her own nipples. She would be overcome as she demanded his attention, too devastated to tend to his cock. A shudder danced along his spine.
Benedict’s hand clenched around his aching length once more, but he allowed it. Eliza would leave him to fan the flames of his own arousal until he pleased her so thoroughly that she wrapped her confident, contented fingers around his prick. He would have done so well, held himself on the edge until she was boneless and sated. She would only have to stroke him once, twice, and on the third, he would spill for her as she demanded, “Good… You’ve been so good to me, Benedict. Come for me now.”
His balls tightened nearly to pain as he broke, shuddering with each gasping surge.
Benedict. Yes, she would call him Benedict.
Sense returned to him at once, a tidal wave crashing over him.
Sense and shame.
During his increasingly unhinged fantasy, he’d tugged the hem of his shirt up. A fact he was grateful for now, as he dug in a trouser pocket for a handkerchief. He swiped at the mess across his abdomen with disgust. Finally, satisfied that he would not have to explain inexplicable stains to the laundress, he flung hisshirt away with the rest of his clothing and rose to walk to the basin. There, he dampened a length of toweling and scrubbed at his flesh. Only when the skin was reddened and raw did he set the fabric aside and return to the bed.
Eliza’s fine glove still lay across his pillow. He pinched it between two fingers before he dropped it on the bedside table as though it burned.
Benedict could not be trusted with that glove.
He collapsed at the edge of the bed, dragging a damp hand through his hair. How could he have used Eliza like that?
If he had been a proper suitor with pure intentions, his actions, though unhinged and improper, wouldn’t have been unforgivably wretched. After all, Benedict thoroughly believed that women deserved to own their pleasure in the bedroom (and his, but that was reserved for private fantasies).
But this… to think of her, to use her in such an intimate way when he was plotting to betray her so thoroughly… Depraved, reprehensible. Benedict was bound for the deepest depths of hell. He would shame even the devil.
Benedict Sinclair, lord of all sin.
Chapter Fourteen
The gardens calledto Eliza as they always did when Sophie was receiving callers. Unfortunately, the possibility of seeing Benedict left her posed on the settee opposite her sister. Of course, the drawing room itself was its own sort of garden, overflowing with the discordant blooms that arrived for Sophie.
Her sister smiled with a false giggle at whatever her current suitor had said—Eliza wasn’t listening, nor did she remember the man’s name. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Sophie couldn’t either.
No, Eliza’s thoughts lingered on the events of last night, both real and dreamed.
Benedict.
“Benedict,” she’d whispered after his lips pulled away from hers. The dream had been rather a girlish imagining of a first kiss, nothing like the scandalous fantasies he’d encouraged. Still, she had flushed so hot she had to press damp fingers to her cheeks. Thoughts of the dream left Eliza floating and fluttering all morning—at least until calling hours brought her down to earth.
Benedict hadn’t specifically said he would call. There was no reason for disappointment to have settled in her sternum. But that rationality did not extend to her anxious mind.
Eliza was pretending to study her embroidery when Christopher, the poor, beleaguered footman, strode toward her instead of Sophie. He smiled brightly as he lowered his tray.
Centered on the etched silver was a single card. Printed in neat writing wasThe Right Honorable Viscount Sinclair. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, tracing the textured parchment and elegant script.
“Send him in, please,” she said, managing to sound mostly unaffected to her own ears.
Across the room, Sophie caught her attention with a questioning brow. At Eliza’s slight nod, Sophie offered a quick grin before turning back to her suitor.
And there he was, overfilling the doorway. Benedict’s stark frame contrasted the airy blues and yellows of the morning room until they faded into nothingness behind him. Dark eyes caught hers, paired with a half smile, before he turned to greet her mother properly.
That was when Eliza noticed the bouquet in his hand. It was simple, far more so than anything Sophie had received, but it was a bundle of purple violets tucked alongside various white blooms with tiny bursts of yellow in their stamens.Hers.
Sinclair bowed briefly to her sister and shook the other man’s hand before turning to her with a private, soft sort of smile.
“Miss Eliza,” he murmured. It shouldn’t have sounded sinful—it was nothing but her name. But, Lord, he knew precisely how to elicit a flush.
